The Lady and the Officer (37 page)

“I believe it was Kathleen, although I can't prove it. She all but admitted to taking a letter from my drawer.”

Clarisa watched tears course down her niece's pretty face, and her heart relented. “Go to sleep, Madeline. Pray that God will protect Colonel Haywood and grant you an opportunity to make amends with him.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She walked toward the bed on shaky legs.

Clarisa closed the door and went to her own room, falling asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, her tea forgotten on her nightstand. When she awoke the next morning, she slipped on her wrapper and went in search of her tiresome Irish maid. Kathleen was still asleep on the cot in her attic bedroom.

“Get up, Miss O'Toole, and get dressed.”

Bolting upright, the maid's dour face flushed brightly. “I was just about to help Esther with breakfast, ma'am.” She swung her legs out of bed.

“This isn't about your laziness. Collect your belongings and come to the drawing room for your final pay envelope.”

“You're firing me? What lies did that Yankee tell you?” The woman's surprised expression changed to one of pure hatred.

“Why would you assume your dismissal has something to do with my niece? Pack nothing that doesn't belong to you, because I intend to inspect your bag before you leave this house. If you take even a can of peas that's not yours, I'll turn you over to the authorities.”

Clarisa marched from the room and slammed the door, something she never did.

J
UNE
1864

From his headquarters tent, James could see troops talking in small clusters. Tonight no noisy camaraderie was among the men, no bawdy songs sung out of key to pass the time while supper roasted over the campfire. Every man from division commanders to lowly privates was subdued by the carnage of the past several weeks.

On General Grant's orders, they had pursued the Rebels from the Wilderness into Spotsylvania County, where they fought for fourteen straight days. When their gunpowder wouldn't ignite in the incessant rain, they fought hand-to-hand. It had been the cruelest combat James had witnessed during his entire career. When the Confederate line held at Spotsylvania, Grant ordered the men to cross the North Anna River and engage Lee's army at Cold Harbor. Grant had told a newspaperman he would continue fighting if it took all summer… and if it cost the life of every blue-coated Union soldier.

After three intense days at Cold Harbor, followed by nine days of skirmishes, the Union Army had lost twelve thousand men. Lee had lost a fraction of that number. Northern papers were calling their new commander “a butcher,” yet General Grant refused to retreat.
This is what the president wants, no matter what the cost.

At the sound of an approaching rider, James rose stiffly to his feet. His chief of staff beat him out the door to meet the rider.

“Let's hope this will be new orders,” said Major Henry. “How long can
we remain this close to Richmond without advancing to crush that arrogant aristocrat, Jeff Davis?”

Almost every chance he got, his adjutant revealed contempt for anyone wealthy, and in so doing, he also revealed the poor circumstances of his upbringing. “At ease, Major. I'll take those dispatches, Corporal.” James reached up to accept the sheaf of rolled parchments.

The courier saluted and spurred his horse to deliver the next batch of orders.

As they walked back into the tent, the major tried to read over his shoulder.

“Give me room!” James snapped.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” The major backed up two paces.

James scanned the document twice before addressing his aide. “You have your wish. Tomorrow we break camp and leave Lee's Army of Virginia. We're to cross the James River on the twelfth and then head south.”

“South—even farther away from Washington? But that will leave the nation's capital exposed to Rebel attack.”

“Even General Lee can't be everywhere at once. We won't win this war with a defensive campaign. We're marching toward Petersburg, the enemy's supply center. Tomorrow the cavalry will strike railroad junctions and cut off the flow of food and munitions to Richmond. We must finish what the naval blockade started. I strongly advise you not to question our commander's directive.”

“With all due respect, sir, how does General Grant plan to move thousands of infantry across the James River with all the rain we've had?”

Running out of patience, the general shot the major a look that could have curdled milk. “The Army Corps of Engineers is building a pontoon bridge as we speak. Spread the word throughout the corps. We are moving out at dawn.”

James spent several minutes stacking maps and journals before he realized his adjutant hadn't left the tent. “Was something unclear about my orders, Major?”

“No, sir, but I have another matter to discuss—of a personal nature. Perhaps you can make time for me before you retire this evening.”

Frowning, James stopped packing. “I have time right now. We'll check
on the picket line so the aides can finish up here.” Two lieutenants hovering near the door hastened to comply, much like his chief of staff.

The two soldiers walked from the temporary headquarters toward the scrub brush that separated the camp from the dense woods beyond. Smoke from dying campfires carried on the breeze, thickening the already heavy humidity. Many men were enjoying a last pipe of tobacco before spreading out their bedrolls to sleep.

“Speak your mind,” James said once they were beyond earshot.

“I know you asked me to not bring up the subject of Mrs. Howard—”

“I didn't
ask
you to refrain, Major. It was a direct order.” He tried to tamp down his escalating temper.

“Yes, sir, an order I wish to obey. But in good faith I feel I have little choice.” Major Henry rocked back on his heels with his chin lifted, as though taking some moral high ground.

“Then by all means proceed at your own risk.” James clenched down on his back teeth.

His adjutant's confidence seemed to falter. “I have in my possession one of those newfangled tintypes. Apparently, a traveling photographer from New York stopped in Richmond this past February and attended a party given by General Rhodes.”

“Rhodes—of which corps? I've never heard of a Rebel general by that name.”

“Nor had I until I questioned my informant. The man is well into his seventies and rather doddering. But Bobbie Lee is so desperate for officers that he'll take anyone still breathing that possesses a smidgen of military knowledge.” Henry released an unpleasant laugh. “Rhodes is a consultant to Jeff Davis.”

James sighed. “It's late and I have much to do. I take it this photo involves Mrs. Howard or you wouldn't be bothering me with trivial matters, such as Richmond social events.” As soon as he voiced the words, he knew the answer as assuredly as day follows night.

The major pulled a small frame from his pocket, which he gazed upon with ill-concealed delight. “Yes, it is indeed Mrs. Howard, and she is on the arm of a Rebel colonel. My informant tells me that he's Elliott Haywood, commander of the Richmond home guard. Although I doubt
he's still in the city now, considering how many officers Lee lost at Cold Harbor.”

“His losses were not more grievous than our own.” James held out an open palm.

“True enough.” Major Henry handed him the tintype and stepped back in case the messenger paid a dire price due to the content of his report.

James studied the rather clear image of his beloved Madeline in a low-cut, extravagant ball gown, the likes of which he couldn't imagine a Pennsylvania farmer's widow ever owning. Her waist-length blond hair had been swept into a cascade of curls from the crown of her head down to her shoulders. Madeline's hand was hooked through the crook of the man's elbow. The pompous colonel wore a dimpled smile as ostentatious as her dress. Haywood appeared strong and self-assured, if not smug. Certainly not doddering and elderly like his host, General Rhodes.

There was no doubt that the woman was his Madeline. But obviously she wasn't
his
at all.

“You would agree the tintype is of Mrs. Howard?”

The general nodded. “Where did you get this? Usually those vagabonds make two copies from each sitting of those involved.”

“My contact in Richmond procured it from a newspaperman, one who's eager to oust Mrs. Howard from their city. Many don't trust her since her visit to Culpeper. This journalist doesn't like her latest liaison any more than you do, General.”

“I suggest you hold your tongue.”

“Come now, sir.” Henry grasped his arm with undue familiarity. “Surely now you don't believe her to be anything other than an opportunistic mercenary. She probably sells secrets to both sides with plans to emerge from this war a wealthy woman. That photo doesn't lie. Mrs. Howard isn't being held against her will by this colonel.”

James shrugged off his hand. “I will consider Mrs. Howard's true nature in private rather than debating it with you, but I am curious how this newspaperman came by this… evidence of her duplicity.” His fingers balled into fists.

The question wasn't one his adjutant had expected. “I understand that
the maid at the home where she's staying procured it. Apparently, the woman would steal the spectacles off a man's nose if the price were right.” Henry sneered, the sound becoming the straw that broke the camel's back.

James drew back his arm and let his fist fly, connecting with the major's nose with malicious intent. His reaction, although forbidden by an officer's code of conduct, was profoundly satisfying. “I warned you to proceed at your own peril, Major. If you
ever
bring up Mrs. Howard to me again or initiate
any
action against her, you'll get more of the same.” He shook the picture in Henry's face. “Then I'll have you court-martialed for disobeying a direct order, or at the very least have you reassigned to lead a brigade into battle.”

The major yanked a handkerchief from his pocket to swab at the blood on his face. His broken nose was already starting to swell. “That was wholly unnecessary, sir. My intention wasn't to offend you.”

James gazed at the happy couple, who smiled back at him. The sight of the arrogant Rebel holding Madeline's arm closely to his side soured his stomach worse than that shipment of rancid beef. Seeing her sweet, innocent face, despite the hardships she'd endured, made him want to weep. “Is this mine to keep?”

“Of course it is.” The major pressed a handkerchief tightly to his nostril. “I have no use for it. If you'll excuse me, sir, I wish to get a cold compress from the medic.” He stomped off with his head at an odd tilt.

James felt a modicum of remorse as he tucked the tintype into his frock coat. When he returned to headquarters, he found a flurry of activity and no opportunity to collect his thoughts. With his corps moving south tomorrow, they all had plenty to do. But before he stretched out for a few hours rest, he penned a letter to the woman he had planned his entire future around. After expressing himself to the best of his abilities, James slipped the sheet into an envelope and scribbled the address he knew by heart.

The next morning he assembled his men into companies. Then, one by one, they marched in formation from their protected valley. They would take everything with them, leaving nothing behind the enemy might find useful. Artillery caissons, ammunition wagons, and the stream of sutlers followed the divisions like an itinerant carnival. All was in order except his
emotions. James's mind parried back and forth attempting to find explanation for the tintype other than the obvious one. Madeline had fallen in love with someone else—a rakish fop with thick hair and a sly smile. Or perhaps he was merely jealous.

With the relocation of his corps underway under a blistering Virginia sun, James motioned for his chief of staff to ride at his side. Major Henry, his nose still red and swollen, had thus far kept his distance that morning.

James pivoted in his saddle and experienced a pang of guilt about the man's nose. “First, I would like to apologize for striking you, Major. Considering your insistence that you acted in my best interest, my reaction was unprofessional and uncalled for.”